Poison Darts
by SofterSoftest
Summary: On the night Count Olaf's parents are murdered, Beatrice Baudelaire meets with a certain Snicket in a crowded opera house.


"It is very difficult to make one's way in this world without being wicked at one time or another, when the world's way is so wicked to begin with."

-Lemony Snicket, _Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid_

When Beatrice thought back to that night, she remembered everything too clearly.

She remembered how it felt to look down at the crowd of unaware opera patrons, how their hats had clashed with their neighbors. She remembered hair jewels glittering from the overhead stage lights and the wafts of thick, spicy perfume.

She remembered the feeling of so much stuffy fabric scratching her skin. The black clothes she had packed were woolen and, perched hidden at the only balcony in the entire opera house, Beatrice felt dizzy from heat. It was the heat, of course, that made her hands tremble and cold sweat bead on the back of her neck. Heat made her stomach drop and her breathing run irregularly.

Trying to calm herself, she imagined the familiar twittering of her bats. It worked for a few moments, the opera music low and foreboding, but then a voice hissed, _"B!"_ and her heart was punching holes through her chest.

Kit Snicket, dressed as a theatre concierge, shimmied up the stairs to Beatrice's perch. Clutched in her hands was a dark oak box they had used during training. Only this was not training.

"Hello, K." Beatrice muttered, eyes darting down to the heads of the crowd. Each top hat was a target, each temporary jewel's destruction was one more way to make the world quiet. The anxiety she had felt earlier was slowly being replaced by something steely and electric. Adrenaline made Beatrice's hands strong and steady when she took the box from Kit and set it between them.

Beatrice flipped open the lid. The dim opera lights glistened like dew on the poison darts, the four of them tucked in a red velvet perches and lined up like ammunition. She hoped, in that moment, that she wouldn't have to use all four. Missing once would have been somewhat understandable. Missing twice would call for months more of training.

"Have you heard from my brother lately?" Kit asked. Beatrice almost didn't hear her over the rapid beat of background violins, but the word brother made her ears perk and her heart race for an entirely different reason. She remembered suddenly a letter she had found stuffed into a novel of Kit's she had been borrowing featuring a Jewish village in Romania that reinvents itself through reassigning family members and jobs and homes. The letter had been addressed to Kit from Sally Sebald and, at one point, Sally had written, " _Siblings must take care of one another when they are all alone in the world..."_

Beatrice grasped the long metal dart gun and removed it gently. She shook her head, avoiding eye contact.

"I haven't spoken with L in quite some time. His letters and telegrams have stopped. Last I heard, he was in the Mortmain Mountains searching for R." When Beatrice plucked a cool dart from the velvet, she glanced over to Kit, who was eyeing them sadly. Her expression was desperate but resigned. She knew this had to happen.

Compassion overcame Beatrice for a moment. She grasped for Kit's clammy hand and squeezed it, just once. "I'm sorry, K. I know how much you care for O."

Kit flinched, startled. She glanced between Beatrice and the crowd below, eyes heavy. "He'll be devastated. But-" her dark eyes hardened into something hateful, "they're the ones who made him a villain. They raised him that way. And we have to do this." Without another word, Kit hurried away towards the nearest side exit. Beatrice slid the first dart into the gun. It scraped into the barrel with a shuddering snap.

A few minutes passed as the opera wore on. The gun was perched just over the railing, aimed at a certain sneering couple. At dips in the music, Beatrice could hear Olaf's mother cackling.

A fluttering near the stage lights caught Beatrice's attention. One of her bats looped overhead, one leathery wing straight and taught. Bertrand had released it from the automobile parked outside. Kit had ushered it in. And, now, it served as Beatrice's signal.

Her knees were shaking as she straightened her back, tucked another poison dart behind her ear, and took aim. It was the heat, she reminded herself, not nerves that made her breath shudder as she inhaled deeply.

With a ferocious gust, she blew into the gun. Silent as a mime, the dart sped into the crowd. There was a soft thud as metal pierced deep into flesh. A shriek sounded. Several concerned murmurs filled the air instead of wailing operatic voices.

Beatrice didn't have time to watch the wreckage progress. She grasped the poison dart from behind her ear, twirled it into the gun with a sweaty grip, and aimed again. Count Olaf's father had stood. His arms were full of his wife, his front slick with crimson. He was nothing more than an easy target.

Beatrice thought of Kit and Olaf, and snarled again into the gun. The sound of metal in flesh was louder this time. The crowd roared as Olaf's father staggered, bloody hands grasping at seat cushions as he struggled to stay upright.

As Beatrice stood on shaky legs, the box tucked between her arms, she saw him fall. The performers had stopped. The crowd was beginning to part around the couple bleeding out on the floorboards. Above all the panic, someone was coughing.

Beatrice darted towards the exit. Kit was waiting at the door, face pale and chalky. She swung the door open, Beatrice's bat following them down the rickety fire escape. A long black automobile was parked in the back alley. As she dove into the passenger's seat, Beatrice nearly recoiled at the familiar smell and wondered in disgust why Bertrand had driven the car VFD only used to abduct neophytes.

Without any greeting, Bertrand sped onto the street. His wavy hair was sweat-darkened. The veins in his neck were blue beneath the pale skin of his neck. After half an hour of recklessly driving towards Monty's newest reptile exhibit, he ventured, very quietly, "How did it go?"

Beatrice glanced into the rear view mirror and saw Kit's cheeks were slick with tears the way, she was sure, the floor of the opera house was slick with fresh blood. As the automobile jostled, the wooden box bounced heavy in her lap. She could feel the remaining two poison darts rattle inside.

"It-" Beatrice started, before releasing a shaky, relieved breath. "It went successfully."

In the back, Kit sniffled just the slightest. Beatrice's bat twittered from where it hung against Kit's seatbelt. Beatrice stared out into the ink-black sky. And Bertrand, slumped in equal parts relief and regret, drove on.


End file.
